


On Air

by rascalnikova



Category: Original Work
Genre: Butt Slapping, Butts, Co-workers, Embarrassment, Farting, Feminist Themes, Fetish, Gen, Groping, Messy, News Media, Non-Consensual Groping, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Office, Office Sex, Outtakes, Scat, Sexual Assault, TV News, Wet & Messy, Work, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 17:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17902016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rascalnikova/pseuds/rascalnikova
Summary: A TV Weather-woman has some bowel issues on air, and chaos ensues.  You can't spell "News Bloopers" without "Oops!"





	On Air

**Author's Note:**

> Contains fart fetish and scat smut material. These characters are mine and mine alone.

It was Natasha Levi’s first day as a newscaster and weatherwoman for her local TV station, on a major news spot for a major city. Months ago, at the interview, and then as a paid intern, everyone was enamored with Natasha, as if she emitted some sort of pheromone. Within a few weeks, she was promoted right up to weatherwoman of Primetime, after just a few mock sessions and practices in front of the green screen. 

~ ~ ~

Natasha is six feet tall with a curvy figure. While she does dress modestly for the sake of her professionalism and the channel’s ratings with the elderly demographic, she isn’t above tugging down the front of her shirt while batting her eyelashes if she doesn’t get her way with an executive, or as a reward for an obedient assistant. Her breasts are a perfect mix of round and perky, a bit below the average for her size, but quite large for women not apparently graced with Amazonian genes. Her waist is thin, and her hips, as well as her chest, are wide, to form a symmetrical hourglass figure. Her butt, meanwhile, is much larger, but unfortunately for every man and a select few women at the station, she hasn’t flaunted that one to manipulate or reward them, at least directly. Underneath her long pencil skirt, a sliver of thick, olive thighs are shown before her combat knee boots cover the rest of her legs, and as for above that, her round, tight bum stretches the fabric, tamed from its real size, its shape hidden in matte black and underneath her overcoat. 

In reality, Natasha’s favorite moments of any work day are her restroom breaks, only because she gets to air out her butt for a bit. She sits on the toilet and massages it as she touches up her face with her other hand, sometimes browses her phone, before she douses it with perfume to mask the sweat and other scents she is reluctant to admit. She also tends to make these restroom breaks as frequent as possible, even if she doesn’t need to go, only to cause a bit of mystique or even a bit of healthy disgust from her oglers. A woman, especially in show business, can only get so much respect from her looks, so it helps, in her experience, to prove to everyone that she is a person, too, with all of the required odors and byproducts, without actually flaunting these around immodestly. While she has no interest in losing her job, she has even less interest in a hook-up, especially with a co-worker, so the miasmas that leak under the doorway of the bathroom help to keep possible suitors away after she is quick to announce them, albeit politely. Of course, her oglers are still attracted to her despite that, even because of it in some cases, so she weaponizes that shame to further her career. 

At least, she tells herself all this to distract herself from the fact that the size of her ass is the result of a lot of indulgence—lots of food, drink, and other vices—to deal with the stress of her work week. This has ramped up exponentially as she counted the days and then the hours until she would be live on the air for the first time ever. 

~ ~ ~ 

An hour before she’s on air, she sits on the toilet, constipated, taking deep breaths as she does her makeup, her ritual to pretend that everything is normal. This morning she made the mistake of eating a grilled cheese with a glass of chocolate milk for breakfast, so the mix of carbs and lactose—of which she is intolerant—swirl around in her anxious tummy. On the bright side, she loves this outfit—the aforementioned too-small black pencil skirt, beige faux-fur peacoat, and combat knee boots—her zipped-up silver suit jacket, on top of her scarlet lace brassiere. 

Her butt, however, is no longer confined to her pencil skirt. It drools out of the sides of the toilet seat, as it folds into it so it can even fit, and emanates with a stinky orange haze that she, in secret, loves the smell of, as everyone loves their own brand. She looks in her compact mirror, at her black eyeliner on her upturned, wide almond eyes with blue irises, at the freckles at her nosebridge and the beauty mark below her plump, bow-shaped lips, at her button nose and at her pointed chin that gives her head a heart shape with the widow’s peak of curly chestnut hair, shoulder length, with natural blonde highlights—and closes it with her blue painted fingernails. She grabs the toilet seat, strains her face, and pushes herself up. Her ass slides out of the toilet seat with a sudden, loud PLUNK! 

Natasha wiggles cutely into her pencil skirt, exhales sharply, and flushes only a little pebble, all she could muster, down the toilet. She throws away her bag of cheese balls that she ate in the stall, as a way to ensure that she didn’t bite her nails. At the sink, she washes her fingers and smiles effortfully to herself, repeats her mantra: “Even the worst case scenario isn’t the end of the world, even the worst case scenario isn’t the end of the world, even the— 

SMACK! She gasps, and looks behind her to see Jim, one of the executives, behind her, with his hand on her ass. Admittedly, she did find him attractive, but naturally she was very upset, and felt violated. Jim smiled his whitened teeth at her, while Natasha furled her eyebrows and frowned at him. She immediately regretted the new unisex bathrooms, even though it helped with their diversity initiative.

“Please don’t touch me without my permission,” Natasha muttered through her teeth. She brushed her hair out of her eyes with her wet hand, and sidled her butt against the sink bar to grab a paper towel. “I would let you; you just have to ask. I have let you before, haven’t I?” she asked, fatigued. 

“Oh, yes,” Jim stuttered, looking down bashfully, his confidence completely gone as his rather thin shoulders dropped. “I did because, y’know, you’ve let me before. Consider like a pat on the back, for good luck.” 

“It was a smack on the ass, for yourself.” 

“Metaphorically, I mean,” he sighs, and makes his way to the sink as well, avoiding eye contact. 

“And what I meant was,” Natasha scolded, “you’ve only grabbed my breasts before. What makes you think you can—

Jim pushed the door open and it slid shut, leaving Natasha alone and frustrated as she dried her hands. 

In the investigative report, this incident was cited as one of the reasons it all went astray. Natasha wasn’t going on air with the mindset of furthering her career, or with being a successful weatherwoman. Rather, her judgement was clouded, and she went on with a vindictive attitude. 

~ ~ ~ 

“3… 2… 1…” and then the tech closed his fist, the green light. 

“Welcome back to WSHR, bringing you the news, that double-you can be shur of.” 

Natasha rolled her eyes at that, and watched as John and Jamie quipped at the news desk. Next to the TV that blocked her path to the desk was a televised timer counting down from five minutes, to when they would cut to her, and she would be live. Her stomach grumbled more and more chaotically as the time counted down, but she took an antacid from her purse, and wrote it off as just nerves. As she waited, her legs bounced in her director’s chair, giving the tech behind her a perfect view of her quivering, tight ass. 

The investigators also noted how the camera operator was distracted in their report. 

~ ~ ~ 

“Before we cut to show you the weather forecast for today, we have a new anchorwoman we would love to introduce you to. We are very proud to introduce Natasha Levi, to show us the weather.” 

The camera cut to her, and after a second with hair in her face, with Natasha bouncing on her heels in front of the green screen, she suddenly blew her hair out of her wide, dilated eyes and squeaked, “Oh, hello, everyone!” John and Jamie laughed politely, with her rather than at her, while the cameraman placated her, so she managed to laugh it off. “As you can tell, I am very excited—not nervous at all!” she continued, leaning into her playful personality. The screen next to her teleprompter showed live tweets tagged with #WSHR from a previous bit, and three tweets immediately appeared on screen within a minute of her being live. One read: ‘Who is this cutie? Finally fired that old windbag from before? #WSHR’ Another read: ‘Oh, she is so nervous, so precious [heart-eyes emoji] #WSHR’ Finally, her favorite tweet, right at the top, read: ‘She could tell me the temperature is a million degrees and I’d believe her. It feels like it in my pants right now #WSHR’ 

She smiled, a little maniacally, in fact, as the editor erased those tweets from the list. She had everyone in the palm of her hand. 

This devilish expression, that even scared the cameraman, is where the viral video clip of this news blooper begins.

“As you can see here,” she went on confidently, “It looks like a warm current of air is on its way from the south. Expect that to bring us up to fifty degrees for the weekend, with sun showers periodically throughout Sunday. Not too bad for late February, right? Maybe you’ll even see me with golden skin for next weekend! It’ll feel good to thaw out, though do keep in mind the acid rain warning for Sunday—

At that, her eyes widened again, she bit her frowning lips, and her hair covered her face as her head jolted down. With one hand, she grabbed her tummy, and brushed her hair out of her face with the other. Then, her tummy audibly grumbled: Grrumpphll 

“Oh… I apologize,” she said, smiling awkwardly. Her knees knocked together and the still camera got an accidental peek at her thighs as she keeled forward, and then, with her butt pointed upwards, she gasped before—

Bbbrrvvrt! 

She heard Jamie, and then John laugh from the desk, and the camera operator stifled laughter. Natasha supposed she could laugh too, then, as she stood up straight and brushed the front of her pencil skirt down, just as the back of her skirt floated down after the wind. It was a short trumpet, and she figured, with how much she ate and how much her tummy hurt, that it was going to be much worse than that. Honestly, the little toot made her giggle, and she knew this would bring her relative popularity with viewers that had a sense of humor. “Oh, I apologize,” she repeated, as the laughter died down, her face red but her smile relatively confident. “I told you all,” she said seriously as she pointed her finger, “I’m not nervous!” she joked. “Anyways, expect a—

Bbrrlloorrrt! 

That one sounded deeper, and with it she pursed her lips and jumped up in surprise as it vibrated her cheeks. “Oof! My bum may as well give you the weather!” she said, to less laughter. She flared her nose and squinted her eyes as she wafted her face with one hand, and her butt, pointed playfully at the camera, with the other. “Let’s just hope there’s no storm, as that can cause mudslides in this area!” she overcompensated, pointing to her butt with both fingers and winking. At this point, she blushed, because both John and Jamie seemed unamused, while the camera operator was turning green. “All right, enough of that then,” she continued, facing towards the camera. “Now, it will be colder the nearer you are to the city, so—

Vvrvrrrttrrtbbbrrbttbbrtbbttrrrttt…

So started her legendary thirty second fart, and the station captured all of it, the editors too stunned to change back to the desk, and Jim and Jamie too stunned to ad-lib to an ad break. The rumbler became progressively more wet-sounding, and lowered in pitch as Natasha just stood straight, her eyes darting back and forth, with her head pointed down in shame. Fifteen seconds in—

...ttrbblbbBRTRLTTbbrloorbrbrrtt... 

Natasha actually looked impatient, with her eyebrows pointed down, her arms crossed, and her foot tapping. At twenty-five seconds in—

...rrroort-BBRRLLRT-CHK-gshhloompph…

Natasha checked her watch, before the fart crashed into her skirt, and she arched her back, bore her teeth, clutched her cheeks behind her. A yellow haze grew denser around her butt as brown tendrils intermingled with it. Even the camera fogged up a bit. At that, the camera operator dropped the camera on its rack, so it tilted down and stopped at her knees, where it focused on a small brown drop that ran slowly down her thighs. 

Just as Natasha began to spoke up with a high-pitched voice crack, the camera cut from her to the desk, and Jamie and John, their faces flushed, shuffled their papers. They spoke over each other until John took the reins: “We apologize, uh, we’ll be back after this commercial—

At that, muffled from across the room, another fart could be heard, as well as a yelp from Natasha. 

...BRPPTTCH! BRRRAPT! BRABA-PPFFTHH-VVVvvvvrrtt… 

John spoke over the fart as it revved up. “We’ll be back after this commercial break.” 

~ ~ ~

The station had a short, unexpected ad break, for thirty seconds, and when it cut back to the desk—

...vrrt-ttrrffrrpphttfft-tffvvvrrrkcckrrckllrckkll…

The same mythical fart, apparently, could still be heard in the background, going strong at forty seconds. At this point, Natasha was timing herself for a record, because counting in her head helped to distract her from stressful situations. Admittedly, it also felt quite nice to let it all out, which could be heard from across the room—

...crrkkCCKKP-jjgshhckrrooorppp! Oh, nngh, that feels so good— PPsshhhhffrttrr-vrr…

Perhaps the director panicked, or perhaps he doubled down on the notoriety this airing would bring them, but either way the cast cut back to Natasha. Now, her tongue lolled out of her open mouth, her eyes were crossed, and the top of her butt broke itself out of her skirt as it folded out of it, and, as the fart revved up, accordingly drooled and spat brown flecks. She was bent forward now, her body profile to the camera, and her hands were on her tummy as her body was at a right angle with her butt pointed out. 

With the side of her eye, she noticed herself on the live feed, and whined as her face pouted. But then, on the next screen, she saw the time change to 1:12 a.k.a how long her fart was holding on! Someone was rooting for her in the studio! With that, she could not stop in the middle of this much relief, so she bit her lip and closed her eyes—

...vvvrrrtt-VVvrvrrtTttTtt-VVRRT-clrck-POP! 

Her butt popped a bubble, and there was stunned silence for five seconds as she came to, until—

BBLLRRAABBPBPTPTTPPCCKSHCHHCKCHUGGORSHPHOOMPTHFTH! 

“Aaaahhhh…!” she cried in absolute ecstasy as a brown, semi-solid tidal wave gushed out the top of her skirt and down the seat of her pants, her legs, and stained the green screen, and thus the Earth, in a cartoonish splat. As it finished, she hooked her thumbs through her skirt, waggled it a bit, her face out of view as she was looking at her own butt, and then a huge glob of shit squished out and plopped onto the floor. 

“Aahh…” she said, finished, and with one blank look to the camera, and a slight flutter of her eyelashes, walked out of frame and out of the studio. The sound of high heels tapping intermingled with the sound of stepping through a puddle, and then decrescendoed as everyone was left stunned, and a dense orange haze dribbled out across the whole studio. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story published on AO3! What do you all think! Please let me know in the comments.


End file.
